


kidnap my heart (ransom my soul)

by haleofStilesheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animalistic derek, Canon-Typical Violence, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Feral Behavior, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Mates, Post-Season/Series 03, Protective Derek, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 06:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12248964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: Getting kidnapped was something Derek had to get used to when he became an alpha. He deals with it pretty well.Until Stiles gets kidnapped too.





	kidnap my heart (ransom my soul)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vassbutt1991](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vassbutt1991/gifts).



> Based off of [this](https://homemadesterekpie.tumblr.com/post/165873682228/homemadesterekpie-i-need-a-fic-where-stiles-and) post, even though I tweaked it a little bit, mostly because I remembered it wrong.

Getting kidnapped was never fun. But it was something that Derek had eventually gotten used to.

No matter how perfect his memory, no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't have been able to count how many times he had gotten kidnapped. It was just a part of his life as an alpha.

He had been kidnapped by hunters and werewolf poachers who either wanted to torture him for information on the rest of the pack or force him into his full shift so they could skin him alive for his pelt. Then there were the hunters that just wanted to terrorize him for the fun of it.

He had been kidnapped by other werewolves, other alphas who wanted to usurp him and take over the highly sought after territory that had belonged to his family since before time was a concept. There had even been one alpha who had kidnapped him in a bid to get him to mate her daughter.

He had been kidnapped by fairies and pixies that reveled in the idea that they could overtake Hale territory in the name of the fae folk. It had been a useless endeavor but they had persisted nonetheless.

He had been kidnapped by witches who had wanted to use his blood for old sorts of dark magic. And he had been kidnapped by other darachs who sought to harness his alpha spark for themselves.

There had been countless other creatures that had kidnapped him — vampires, sirens, dragons, even a kelpie — but he had always escaped. With a few scrapes and bruises that would quickly heal, but he escaped all the same.

It was different with hunters.

With hunters, he genuinely had to worry about whether or not they would actually kill him. While other creatures might hesitate at killing, or even just seriously harming, an alpha werewolf who was so connected to the land he could practically predict when the leaves would start to change, hunters had no such qualms.

All they wanted to do was inflict as much pain and agony and traumatizing torment as possible. Until he was begging them for death, begging them to just put him out of his misery.

And they would. In a rare show of mercy, they would kill him. But it wouldn't be quick or painless. No, hunters were never that kind.

They would draw the death out. However they could.

Werewolves could still die of dehydration. It just took a little longer. And the hunters wouldn't mind waiting.

Mistletoe extract was much more than an essential oil used for homeopathic treatments. When injected into a werewolf's bloodstream it acted like a poison, a slow one that felt like fire coursing through veins like a deadly flood.

Knives dipped in mountain ash wine could be used for dismemberment. That way no limbs would heal, nothing would grow back.

It was both fascinating and horrifying how creative hunters could be when scheming up new ways to torture and slaughter werewolves. Human cruelty would never cease to amaze him.

Not after decades of suffering at the hands of humans, of hunters. Not after he was manipulated into being an unwitting accomplice in the murder of his family.

Not after being seduced by a woman twice his age who had charmed her way into his bed and his heart with pretty smiles and sugary sweet lies. Not after being accused of his own sister's murder by humans who had no idea what he was, only who he was.

Not after the pack he had formed out of desperation and howling loneliness had been hunted down by the very same family of hunters that had taken everything from him when he was only seventeen years old. Not after his attempt at living a life with some semblance of normalcy had been shattered into pieces.

And especially not now. Not after they had dragged Stiles into it.

Apparently, Chris Argent, who Derek had been keeping an eye on despite his many assurances that he had put his days of werewolf hunting behind him, still had a few surviving family members. Family members who just so happened to be hunters.

And lo and behold, they had decided to vacation in Beacon Hills for the fall. Of course, Derek hadn't known about any of it until he had already been knocked out by a cloud of wolfsbane and dragged off to some abandoned warehouse.

Hadn't known until he had already been chained up to an electrified fence that was pumped full of enough voltage to kill a whole herd of elephants. Until he had already been viciously shocked for hours on end in hopes that he would reveal where the other members of the pack were.

Derek had never been so grateful that most of the betas had decided to attend college out of town. He had reminded himself of that every time the damn Argents turned on the generator.

He had tried to focus on thoughts of Erica's smile as she laughed at something sarcastic Boyd had said as the hunters gouged him with blades dipped in mountain ash. Had pictured Isaac's head of golden curls and Peter's rare moments of tolerability as he was doused in yellow wolfsbane that made his skin burn like it was on fire.

But the thought that got him through the worst of the torture was Stiles.

Stiles' warm brown eyes that sparkled whenever he made a particularly clever joke. Stiles' perpetually messy hair that couldn't be tamed by all the hair gel in the world.

The constellations of moles on his pale cheeks and down the column of his back. The perfect Cupid's bow of Stiles' pink lips.

The wild way he gesticulated with every inch of his body. The way he quoted Star Wars whenever humanly possible.

The colorful flurry of flannels and ironic t-shirts he always wore. The bright highlighters he gnawed on when he studied at the loft.

It was those thoughts, thoughts of Stiles, that got him through the most agonizing forms of torture. From when they ripped off his claws, one by one by one, to when they drowned him in pools of mistletoe oil.

All that he could deal with. It was nothing new, not really.

But then they crossed the line and one of those bastard Argents dragged someone else into the room. Someone who kicked and screamed and cursed and quipped despite the blood in his mouth.

Someone who earned himself a harsh punch when he bit the hand of one his captors. Someone who screeched out profanities in English, Polish, and the broken Spanish that one learns in high school.

Someone in a ripped flannel and bloody Deadpool t-shirt. Someone with a bloody split in the Cupid's bow of their lip. Someone with messy hair matted with blood.

Someone who the hunters chained to a post so they could torture him, too. So they could burn him with blow torches and break his fingers and his toes.

It went on for days. The torture. The hellish agony that had become both of their lives.

Their only peace was when the hunters got bored of dragging blades across their skin and firing rounds dangerously close to their heads just to scare them. When the hunters left for a few hours to eat and sleep and shit.

Derek tried to use those hours to sleep, to let his body focus on healing. But Stiles, poor Stiles, with the pain receptors of a human and a sore lack of supernatural healing abilities used the time to finally cry.

He tried so hard to be quiet, biting his bruised and bloody lip to keep his sobs in, but Derek could always hear him. Could always hear the desperation, the hopelessness in every hiccup, in every shaky breath.

It was only marginally better than when they actually tortured Stiles.

Because it was then that Derek would have given anything to be deaf. To not have to hear the anguished cries from the boy he loved as the hunters beat him bloody while demanding information.

It was during those moments when he raged against his constraints, when he tried to yank himself off the electrified fence and slither out of the coils of barbed wire they had curled around him. When he tried to rip his chains from the wall so he could kill every last one of the hunters.

He was nearly feral with it, the need to protect Stiles, to rush to his side and free him from any harm. It was the age-old instinct of an alpha protecting its emissary, its mate.

But the hunters didn't know that. They didn't know the stories that had been passed down from alpha to alpha, generation to generation. They didn't know about werewolves. Not really.

Sure, they knew the basics: big teeth, pointy claws, shifts influenced by the moon. And, yes, they knew how to torture and bribe and kill. But they didn't know werewolves.

They didn't know the story of the wolf that fell in love with the moon and serenaded her each and every night with a song so sorrowful the moon eventually took pity on the poor wolf and gave it the gift of walking upright. All the better to reach out to its unattainable love.

They didn't know about the bond between alphas and emissaries, of the shared touch of magic in both. Or how that magic could easily turn deadly if necessary.

And they had no clue about mates. None.

They didn't know about the madness that could overtake a wolf if their mate was threatened, if their mate was hurt. They didn't know about the righteous rage that gave Derek the extra strength to free himself from his restraints.

He had deep lacerations around his midsection, fragments of steel lodged in his gut, but the pain didn't register for a second. None of it.

Not the wolfsbane filled gunshot wound in his chest or the gash in his forehead. Not the fatigue that came with days of captivity and starvation or the lethargy from the poison coursing through his veins.

All he cared about was getting to Stiles, getting to his emissary, his mate. About decimating whatever stood in his way.

It was over in just a few seconds. For all their guns and wolfsbane and mountain ash, all of the hunters ended up the same way: piles of blood and butchered flesh strewn around the warehouse.

The coppery stench of blood hung heavy in the air but Derek couldn't smell it. He could only smell Stiles' distress, his pain.

Whining high in his throat, fueled by adrenaline, Derek had carefully scooped up Stiles in his arms. The aimless wandering through the warehouse sapped the rest of his strength.

Barely two seconds after Derek managed to lug Stiles out of the warehouse and into the cool air of the night, he collapsed. The last thing he saw was the full moon hanging overhead, a silent sentinel as he cradled Stiles to his chest.

* * *

He woke up what seemed like years later, emerging from the dark blanket of unconsciousness into the golden sunshine pouring in from the floor to ceiling windows in the loft.

He was in his bed, the downstairs one that he had been using less and less. The sheets were warm yet cold at the same time as he gradually grew more aware of his surroundings.

There was a stabbing pain in his midsection and a full body ache plagued every inch of him. He reluctantly opened his to stare up at the high ceiling, at the rafters where a pigeon had been nesting when he first moved in.

He could hear people breathing, the several distinctive heartbeat patterns informing him that his betas were around. It was a comforting sound, their heart rates calm and unhurried, assuring him that there was no present danger.

But then he realized that there was a heartbeat that was missing. The familiar jackrabbiting pound of Stiles' heartbeat was nowhere to be found.

Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite the vertigo, he abruptly sat up, frantically looking around for Stiles. But he couldn't find him.

"Derek?!" A vaguely familiar voice called but it was lost in the fog that was quickly clouding his rational thoughts. "Guys, he's up!"

In a moment all of his betas were by his bedside, worried expressions plastered on their faces. Even Peter looked genuinely concerned.

"Where's Stiles?!" Derek growled at them, his eyes flaring red as he continued searching the room for his missing mate. He could feel his fangs elongating, his claws lengthening as a lethal mixture of protectiveness and worry overwhelmed him.

So caught up in the whirlwind of emotion, he reached out to grab Peter by the front of his V neck. He tugged his uncle close as he snarled, "Where. Is. He?"

"He's upstairs!" Erica snapped, moving forward. She pointed a manicured, red painted nail at the spiral staircase on the other side of the loft.

Releasing Peter who reeled back with an exasperated sigh, Derek leapt from his bed, ignoring his aching limbs. The climb upstairs was agonizing but it was worth once Stiles came into view.

He was lying in Derek's bed, bandaged and draped in a warm blanket. There was an IV in his arm, pumping him full of fluids.

In a chair by the foot of the bed, the Sheriff was snoring softly. He was frowning, even in his sleep.

Stiles was awake, trailing his eyes over the wall until his gaze landed on Derek. He smiled as much as he could without jostling his broken nose, croaking, "Hey, Derek."

Derek could only whine as he slowly crossed the room to climb onto the foot of the bed. He ducked his head in apology, baring his neck.

The sight of Stiles was horrible, a reminder of how much Derek had failed him. Of course, Stiles didn't see it that way, quipping, "You should see the other guy. Well, actually you already did. Right before you ripped his throat out. It was kinda hot."

Ignoring Stiles' witty comment, Derek plopped down beside him, burying his face against the side of Stiles' chest. With a soft smile, Stiles curled his arm around Derek's shoulders, running a hand up and down the alpha's back, "It's okay, Der. I've gotcha and I'm not letting you go. Never."

The sound Derek let out was more of a purr than anything else. Not that anyone could blame him. He had found his moon and he would be damned if anyone took that from him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr [here](hale-of-stiles-heart.tumblr.com)


End file.
